


Handmade Heaven

by Medea_Nunc_Sum, mokiwrites



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Ineffable husbands - Fandom
Genre: Car Sex, M/M, getting it on in the back of the bently, i'm never gonna be able to write horny stuff for them, like really soft, poetic smut, soft, they're too soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-25
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2020-05-19 11:23:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19356058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Medea_Nunc_Sum/pseuds/Medea_Nunc_Sum, https://archiveofourown.org/users/mokiwrites/pseuds/mokiwrites
Summary: Their hearts sang in Greek, in Hebrew, in languages unknown to man and that were so old it felt as though not even the earth remembered it. They ached in it, blazed in it, brought it back to life between them.





	Handmade Heaven

The air was humid around them, heavy with sex and wine and six thousand years of forbidden love. Windows fogged, obscuring the baptism inside the Bentley as the wheels rocked.

Long arms wrapped around softened, pale shoulders and held on as though the floodwaters had returned to sweep them and all of humanity away. Holy water beaded beneath platinum blonde hair and their pants formed a prayer that landed in the bloodied, hungry hands of Aphrodite.

(And she smiled, lips dripping with the juice of pomegranates, of apples, of grapes. Her tapestry woven between an Angel and a Demon, made up of heart strings and shredded curtains that kept curious eyes away, away, _away_.)

Crowley hid his face away, nose pressed into the citrus twang of the divine and the cedar wood musk that came from old books until only the red of his hair remained visible. His cries muffled against skin that felt too-human, the sound high and desperate and close to breaking. The sun was above him, around him, dripping honey heat down his back and melting his wings. 

His tongue caught on gasps and sobs, and he held onto his own Apollo, nails digging into skin, wanting to pull that heat with him when he fell, wanting to keep that warmth with him when the sea swallowed him whole. 

Burning. Burning. _Burning_. 

(But he wasn’t falling. He wasn’t _falling_. Not today. The Sun had caught him, held him, whispered into his ear.)

Fingers bit into skinny hips with a delightful snake-fanged strength, guiding every roll and keeping him in place with each thrust. Crowley trusted his Sun’s strength. Trusted the palms that guided him like a sacrifice straddling the altar of Aziraphale’s thighs. 

A moan pressed into auburn hair. Hot. Heavy. It was a prayer. A cry. Begging in a temple on a stormy night. Not to God, no. In _defiance_ of God, as if daring Her to untangle their souls and challenging Her to tell either of them that their love was blasphemy. 

Their hearts sang in Greek, in Hebrew, in languages unknown to man and that were so old it felt as though not even the earth remembered it. They ached in it, blazed in it, brought it back to life between them. 

Crowley drowned in it. He felt the world spin around him, swallowing him whole. Salt water stung the not-quite-human skin of his cheeks like they were splatters of his own Holy water. Or maybe he was Prometheus, torn raw and asunder, ripped apart while the ocean lapped at his feet. 

 _I’ve got you_ , arms around him assured, tightening around his spine and pulling him in _close-close-close._ They held him like he was something precious, as if he wasn’t the trickster, the scorned, the buried who brought the fire and wisdom and sacred knowledge down from the hills-mountains-trees.

Crowley believed it. 

Believed it to a point that it was carved into stone tablets and carried down from the clouds for a waiting, anxious crowd.

“Let go,” Plush lips breathed against his ear, begging and demanding at once. “Let go, my dear, it’s all right—I’ve got you.” 

A storm fractured inside Crowley’s chest; his bones became branches of white light, striking through his heart, across his demonic soul. It felt like a brick against a police shield, felt like a rock against a window, felt like _love._  

“Please,” he said, and heavy pants whisked away the words, mixed into the blaze between them. “Azir- _Azir_ —”

His want stole the air from Aziraphale’s lungs, grabbed it in tight coyote teeth and swallowed it. Crowley's love swept into him, pulled like the tide beneath a full moon. It consumed him, flooded everything until nothing else existed but that love. Sharp, shuddering gasps filled his chest, exhaled as groans dragged out from the beginning of time. It arched between them in pillars of white shattered into reds, oranges, yellows, greens, blues, and violet. 

Praise to the Almighty took shape on Aziraphale's tongue. 

But God had no place here. 

This was their lovingly crafted temple, surviving the fires of time, the war of eternity, and if anyone’s name would be said with reverence, it would be—it would be— 

“That’s it, Crowley,” Aziraphale crooned, kneeling before the altar, sitting upon the throne. “Just like that.” 

Fingers dug into his shoulders, tightening like coils across his skin. They dragged down his spine, guiding him willingly into temptation. Crowley held on to his sun, his angel, his sanity. His words—garbled like a nebula in stirred in a pot—broke like waves against flushed skin. 

He was too hot, too close, too far, too _much_.

Nothing in Hell had ever burned across his being so harshly, so wonderfully. It was torture, but only of the best kind. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale dragged his teeth across a thin shoulder, nipped at a collarbone, felt a throat swallow beneath his lips. Blonde hair mixed with crimson, looking like blood across marble. They were their own gods, splayed across leather shrines, receiving totems of choked words and sweat, of hot days and summer nights. “ _Crowley_.”

His hand splayed across a hip, traced down a thigh, felt heels press into the small of his back. 

Yellow eyes fluttered, red lips pulled in, and Aziraphale kissed away gasps and moans. Stained glass light filtered through the trees and an angel confessed his own secret sin against the Serpent of Eden’s flushed, tear-stained, heated skin. 

A different four letter word was breathed into Crowley’s soul and it burned in a way his fall never did. Burned in a way his body didn’t. The rhythm of its song blew like trumpets across his skin, so close he could feel the sound pierced through his heart with all the practiced sharpness of a knife.

They became a Greek tragedy, blazing beneath whispered, haunted breaths, and shot through the sky to fall into the sea together. Words so simple yet so powerful sliced through the last shred of fear, becoming the righteous blade giving tremendous weight to the original moral argument. 

A sound caught in his throat, strangled. Black lacquered nails bit into the back of Aziraphale’s neck and dragged out beads of divine blood. Head bowed, Crowley pressed his lips firm against pale curls, murmuring words he’ll never remember in a language his very being knew as his form was turned inside out. 

And it was love who painted his organs with glitter and ambrosia. Was Aphrodite who used his body as a canvas.

For a moment, he lived with a ticking heart; something to be thrown through the windows of their past, making a point language has no room for. 

Around them, the universe dug a hole, burying all the things they never said, the things they never meant, and all the things that threatened to burn them alive, leaving them with nothing but ash.

(And from that ash sprung something forbidden, something wild, something _unorthodox_. Maybe it was an apple tree. Maybe it was something entirely new.)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Handmade Heaven](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20156137) by [Gorillazgal86](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gorillazgal86/pseuds/Gorillazgal86)




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